


The Mirror

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: Horror, Original Fiction, original horror story, original short story, second point of view
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 16:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10666158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Despite your protests, your limbs betray you. You slowly cross the room, unblinking at the large brass mirror. It’s long, floor to ceiling nearly. You blink back at yourself in its dusty reflection. You lift a hand, and in the mirror, your hand raises as well. You take a few steps closer, only a yard away now."





	The Mirror

The room itself seemed standard; that is, as standard as a room in a house as old as this can be. After a quick glance, your mind supplies the description of the room: average size, maybe twelve by twelve feet, pale, peeling paint on the wall, four poster bed at one wall, a large desk and wardrobe at the other, finally, the mirror that sits alone on the wall parallel to the window.

You collapse onto the bed, your large duffle bag scraping your legs as you do so. The ceiling, as you can see, matches the old, peeling interior of the rest of the house. You glance at your phone, November 19th it supplies. A week until you can go back home, a week until you can leave your Great-Great-Grandfather’s home before he passed. Already you know that this week will be spent putting all of his old possessions in boxes, as the house has just been sold.

There’s a knock at your door, and you barely have time to sit up before it opens. Your brother stands in the doorway. He glances around your room.

"Mom needs our help downstairs, as soon as you’re unpacked," Is all he says before leaving.

You could sit and refuse to unpack, but it would just delay the inevitable, you realize, so you stand swiftly and cross the room. A sharp shriek fills the room as you open the unused wooden drawers of the wardrobe. Instead of being frightened by it, you glare at the wood in annoyance and quickly throw your bag into the cobweb-filled drawer. After you unzip the brown bag, you internally declare yourself unpacked. Throwing a sweatshirt over your thin shirt, you begin to head towards the door.

Then you pause upon hearing a soft noise.

A tap, that was all you heard. Nearly a knock, but too soft to be considered one. You pause, in the center of the room, and gawk at the open door. Not even your brother stands in the doorway. Frowning, you continue out of the room and glance down the hallway. The hall looks the same as your room: pale, cold, and ancient. Again, no one is in your sight.

You shake your head in false humor, chiding yourself for getting wrapped up in the atmosphere of the manor.

You’re barely three steps out of the door when you hear it again, louder this time.

The noise shocks you to a degree where you flinch back, nearly colliding with a table holding a vase in the hall. You whip your head around, the end of the hall is clear. Slowly you turn behind you as the goosebumps on the back of your neck begin to rise. You sense something behind you and-

"Oh, come on! I was about to sneak up on you!" Your brother complains from where he had been crouched.

After taking a steadying breath you say, "That was not funny."

He takes your arm. "Yeah, it kind of was. C’mon! Mom needs our help downstairs now. Race you?"

You both take off down the hallway.

The rest of the day is spent coughing up dust and filling cardboard boxes to the brim. Finally, your mom sends you and your brother back upstairs after dinner.

"You’re going to need to get some rest," she had said. "We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow!"

Trudging into your room, you yell one final thing to your brother, "I hope you know, I will actually stab you if you try to scare me tonight. And the knocking earlier? Not funny."

He gives you a funny look. "Well, consider me warned," he says, beginning to walk into his room. After a second he pauses and looks over his shoulder. "There wasn’t any knocking."

"What?" You ask, confused. You ignore the chill running down your spine and resist the urge to look behind you.

"Earlier. I was just going to sneak up on you, but I didn’t knock or anything. I have no idea why you said that."

"Oh," you say. "Must’ve just been footsteps, from downstairs."

He nods. "Or pipes. Old house, after all." A pause. "Well, goodnight."

"See you tomorrow," you say, and he nods and shuts his door.

You’re alone in the doorway to your room. Suddenly the silence is deafening and your panic is overwhelming. You stand, frozen, waiting. The mood is so apprehensive, you’d rather something happen now then wait. Hold on, you think, it was just footsteps. Or pipes. Why am I so afraid? What am I so afraid of? It’s just a rickety, old house.

This, somehow, calms you to the point where you begin to laugh quietly at yourself. After all, it’s stupid to get so wound up over a simple noise. You step into your dimly lit room, close the door, and immediately being to get ready for bed.

Once your pajamas are on, you’ve forgotten what made you so upset earlier. A quick glance tells you that the door is shut, and you can finally close your eyes and go to sleep. You pull back the musty duvet, revealing slightly yellowed sheets. As you slide under the covers, you note that they are colder than the weather outside.

You can feel sleep tugging at you, and your eyelids weigh several tons. You give into sleep's call, allowing it to pull you under. Your thoughts are beginning to slip away. And then there’s another knock.

You sit up so quickly you need to blink for several seconds to make the spots clear out of your vision. Having lost all patience, you yell, "Not funny!" but your brother doesn’t respond. Your breath catches in your throat.

You stumble out of bed, quickly turning on the light. The room is as empty as it was when you arrived, spare you and your belongings. Your legs are apart as you stand as if you’re prepared for a fight. The air is thick, and, despite the attempts to calm your panic, you can’t breathe.

Another knock, and you’re no longer a statue, but moving towards the window as if it’s the only way out of a burning building. You peer into the milky night; nothing stares back. You glance down at the ground and realize that you’re on the second floor. There is no one knocking on your window tonight.

It’s just a mouse in the attic, you argue with yourself, or a leaky faucet. Or something hitting the roof.

And then it happens twice, these noises more persistent than the others. Knock, knock, though, this is no joke. There is no closet for someone to be hiding in, nor space under the bed. The wardrobe drawers are too small to fit a human, and the desk chair is pulled out, revealing no one underneath. The only other item in the room is the mirror.

The mirror.

Your blood goes cold, as does the temperature in the room. While it was knocking on glass you heard, it was not the glass of the window.

Despite your protests, your limbs betray you. You slowly cross the room, unblinking at the large brass mirror. It’s long, floor to ceiling nearly. You blink back at yourself in its dusty reflection. You lift a hand, and in the mirror, your hand raises as well. You take a few steps closer, only a yard away now.

Then you glare at the wall behind it, as there is another room there, though. Surely this is your brother, being annoying as usual. You lean forward and pound on the wall for several seconds. Not even an insect responds to your call.

Fuming, you promise to get revenge tomorrow at breakfast. All of your fear is gone now, replaced with annoyance and anger. Only the remembrance of the mirror distracts you. It is rather pretty, you notice, and you reach out to feel the metal frame. Much like the bed, and the whole house, it is cool to the touch.

Then, the picture in the mirror shifts. It’s the same, a reflection of you and the room, but it looks clear now, as if it isn’t reflection but another room. Another you.

The mirror makes you feel as if you’re simply staring into a room, through a doorway.

Lurching back, you tear your hand from the metal. As soon as you stop touching it, the dimensions return to normal. Staring at it, you wonder if you’ve imagined the "other room". You take a calming breath and again reach out towards the mirror.

The effect is the same; seemingly the glass is gone and you can step into the mirror. This time, you react differently after ripping your hand from its touch. It’s hung from the top, so it’s entirely possibly to move it off the wall a few inches. So, you do. You step beside it, touching the minimalist amount of metal possible, and tug it away from the wall. Behind it, the wall is identical to the rest of the room. Frowning, you replace the mirror to its place on the wall.

You’ve gone too far now to walk away and go back to sleep. You know that if you never figure this out, you’ll never stop thinking about it.

Again, you reach for the frame. This time, the shift of the mirror doesn’t nauseate you. This time, you’re expecting it. You stare, simply stare at it, for several minutes, unsure of what to do. After three minutes, your free arm starts to act on its own accord. Slowly, it reaches to touch the glass. You never do. In fact, as soon as your fingertips land where the glass should be, they neither hit the glass nor go into the "other room". They disappear. You bite back a scream and throw yourself away from the mirror.

You’re on the ground, scooting away from the mirror and holding your fingers up as if they’re on fire when it happens. Your reflection is no longer your own. The room is the same, but you, your reflection, suddenly stands.

‘Your’ face is void of all emotions for a moment, before breaking into a large smile.

This time, you don’t bite back the scream.

‘Your’ hands suddenly raise in a surrendering gesture. "No, please don’t scream," Your voice says, but your lips do not move.

You throw your hand over your mouth, breathing heavily into it, as ‘you’ stare back at yourself.

"Please," ‘You’ say. "I really don’t mean any trouble."

Your crawling has stopped as you reach the bed, unknowing as you no longer are your own reflection.

"W-what is this?" You ask, your voice in shards.

"Just take a deep breath," ‘You’ say, "I can explain."

You pull yourself onto your feet. "This isn’t possible. You aren’t possible."

A sigh comes from ‘You’.

"Ah, but here I am."

"How?"

A grin that looks unnatural on your face appears on your reflection. "This hasn’t been done in a long, long time. This mirror," a laugh, "is very special."

"How? It’s almost like a door or something."

"Precisely! It’s a door. You’re quick."

"But…," You say, trying to peer behind your reflection. The glassy look in the mirror returned when you removed your hand, but when your reflection disobeyed you, you forgot to take note. "Where does it lead?"

"A world mirror to your own," another laugh comes from ‘Your’ lips. "Pun unintended."

"How is this possible?"

"How is anything possible."

"I...What?"

"That is to say, I do not know."

"Oh. So, are you me? Are we the same person?" You ask.

"You could say that," ‘You’ say. "Say, where is this mirror?"

You see no reason to lie to yourself. "My...Our….Great-Great-Grandfather’s house. No one’s been here for years, we’re just here to clean it out, and, well, I touched the mirror."

"I know," ‘You’ say. "I can see through the mirror too. You heard my knocks?"

"I knew I wasn’t going insane!" You say as if this explanation is better to the alternative. Both versions of you laugh, real and reflection. "What does this mean? What do we do?" You ask yourself.

The smile fades from your reflections face. "I need your help."

Your smile follows. "What do I do?"

"Touch the mirror," ‘You’ say. "Please."

You grow still. "Why?"

"It’s the only way to help me. I’ve been on this side of the mirror for too long, I need to see what it’s like on the other side."

You don’t respond, and your reflection takes this as a sign to keep talking. "It’s entirely safe, it used to happen all the time. Mirrors like this don’t last very long, though, so it’s nearly impossible now. Think about it! We could be siblings, twins. And if not, I’ll go to a different country, or even back into the mirror after I take a look."

"Why do you want out?" You ask.

"Curiosity has always gotten the best of me," ‘You’ say.

"But if we live mirrored to each other, shouldn’t everything be nearly the same?"

A grin. "That’s what I want to figure out. All I need is for you to touch the metal, just for a second."

You exhale. "Oh, okay, all right. This is already the weirdest day of my life."

Just as you reach for the metal, the door opens. Your mom peers in.

"Why are you still awake, dear? Go to bed, we have to be up early tomorrow!"

You glance back at your reflection, who has their arms crossed. They speak, "She hasn’t touched the mirror. She can’t see or hear me like you can."

You nod slightly and turn back to your mom. "All right, all right. I’m almost done. Goodnight!"

"Goodnight, dear," your mom says before shutting the door again.

You expect your reflection to be laughing when you turn back, but they look expressionless. You roll your eyes. "Okay, I’m ready now."

They smile. "So am I."

This time, the metal is hot. You nearly retract your arm, but the grin on ‘Your’ face makes you stop. They lift their arm towards you, towards the "door". You stare at it as it nears you, disappearing like your fingers.

"Help me," they say. "I need you to pull me over!"

Your free arm disappears into the glass, and, though you can’t see it, a hand meets yours and tightly hold on. One second later, you're on the ground, too dizzy to stand.

You groan, rubbing your temples.

You finally manage to open your eyes after a few seconds. The room is not your own. This room is not a room. This room is a cell, with no bars on the window, maybe because there are no windows. The walls are a gray stone, the floor is dusty, and there are no doors or windows. There isn’t even a bed. The only source of light is coming from a rectangular shape on a wall.

The mirror. The light is coming through the mirror, from your room.

You’re on your feet in a second, despite the black spots that fog your vision, and you’re staring through the mirror. You see yourself.

No.

You see ‘Yourself’.

They stare back at you, waving a little innocent wave.

"What is this?" You yell. "Where am I? What happened?"

"I’m not going to touch the mirror," ‘You’ say, "because, frankly, I am not an idiot. But, I know you can see and hear me." A harsh laugh, a sound from my vocal cords that I shouldn’t have to hear like this. "You are far too trusting."

‘You’ glance at the wardrobe. They stroll over, continuing to talk, and open it.

"Many, many, many years ago, there lived a poor man. A poor, old man who made mirrors. Oh, he made art! One day, a man came into his store, telling him that he had something to sell him. It was a mirror, identical to the one in this room.

"There was eight mirrors in total. No one knew how they got here, how they work, or what they mean. This same man had woken up to find one in his room, on the wall across from him. As you can tell, they transport people. Where you are, I don’t know."

‘You’ve’ begun to pull clothes out of your duffle, laying them over ‘your’ body, testing them.

"All I know is that you can’t get out, never. Unless, however, someone switches place with you. I’ve been imprisoned in that cell for forty years. Your relative put me there. He switched with me.

"I don’t know how long he himself was in there. Dozens of years, maybe. Maybe he was the mirror’s first occupant. I don’t know. All I know is that I am never going back."

"Please!" You beg, despite not being heard.

"And," ‘You’ say, "there is only one way to ensure that."

Your reflection, though that may be you now, drops the clothes suddenly, unaware of your sobbing. You know, however, that they can hear the faint taps on the mirror as you pound and throw yourself against it.

‘You’ lifts the desk chair, throwing it against the mirror. Your view of the room cracks, but does not fall. You see yourself peer into the shards curiously, wondering if it worked or not. The door bursts open seconds later.

The mirror has cracked but not fallen.

Your brother storms in the room at the sound of a chair falling and glass breaking. "Oh, my God! What happened?"

‘You’ gasp. "It-It. The chair just fell into the mirror. I d-don’t know how!"

Your brother hugs the wrong person. "Are you okay?" He asks Someone Who Is Definitely Not You as your parents rush into the room.

You watch. You watch as they comfort someone who they think to be you, you watch as they hug them and help them clean the few shards that fell that they refuse to touch. You watch as someone from three hundred years ago, someone who should be dead, steals your family, your life, and your face.

You watch because it's all you can do.

You watch them climb into your bed and say goodnight to your parents. You watch them grin and wave at the mirror before they fall asleep. You watch them as they sleep like a rock as if they haven’t shut their (your) eyes in years.

You watch them the entire week.

They grin as they convince your parents to keep the mirror, though cracked as it is, on the wall.

They grin as they pack your clothes.

They grin as they give the mirror a wave before leaving the room for the last time.

-

You learn that in this mirror, wherever you may be, you have no desire to eat or drink, or sleep. You quickly lose track of time. Silence has never been louder. There is nothing to do but sit and watch and wait.

Years later, years of silence, and thoughts, and staring and desperation, a new family moves in. They have a daughter, a few years younger than you, and they plan to remodel the house. The daughter moves into your room. 

Not five minutes after entering for the first time, she touches the cracked, broken mirror.

You grin, a real, ecstatic grin. You don’t need a mirror to know what you or the room looks like to her.

"Hello!" You say. "I’m so glad you’re here!"

"W-What? How is this happening?"

-

The next day, you throw the mirror into the trash. This time it’s shattered, broken beyond repair.


End file.
